With eager hands he was tearing the hood of a _za'abut_--a rough, woolen slave cloak, patched and ragged--from the face of a prostrate figure more than half snowed under a sand-drift.
"_Nom de Dieu!_" the Master heard him cry.

"_Mais, nom de_--" "What have you found, Lieutenant ?" shouted the Master, letting the simoom drive him toward the wady.

In their excitement none of the men would yet take cover, lie down and hide their faces under their coats as every dictate of prudence would have bidden.

"Who is it, now?
What--" "Ah, my Captain! Ah! the pity of it! Behold!" The Frenchman's voice, wind-gusted, trembled with grief and passionate anger; yet through that rage and sorrow rang a note of joy.
"Tell me, Leclair! Who, now ?" demanded the Master, as he came close and peered down by the fire-gleam roaring on the beach, sending sheaves of sparks in comet-tails of vanishing radiance down-wind with rushing sand.
"It is impossible, my Captain," the lieutenant answered in French.

His voice could now make itself heard more clearly; for here in the wady a certain shelter existed from the roaring sand-cyclone.